


Portrait of the Artist

by biswholocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist!Sherlock, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Paternal!Lestrade, See Author's Notes For Warnings, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Drawing had absorbed all his free time in between lessons and experiments since he’d opened the package, and yet, Sherlock hadn’t grown bored of it. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Father

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for this chapter: descriptions of child abuse. Please note that the family Sherlock has here is not the one depicted in series three. Title comes from a quote by Oscar Wilde: “Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.”

“Dull,” Sherlock declared, staring up at the ceiling of his room, hands folded underneath his head.

    Mycroft’s sigh seemed to be the constant soundtrack in Sherlock’s life. “I haven’t even told you what I’m doing here, brother mine.”

    “You’ve come up to deliver something,” Sherlock stated, wiggling his toes in boredom. “Not from Mummy or Father, or you’d have insisted on being ‘proper’ about it, but still important, or you’d have left it til tomorrow. A present then, from a relative who insists upon getting me gifts despite my long explanations as to why birthday celebrations are pointless and banal. Judging from the plain packaging the aforementioned relative is Aunt Lucy, and if you would be so kind as to shake the box slightly- yes, I do believe it is a sketch pad and a set of drawing pencils.” Finished, Sherlock lazily rose a hand and flicked his fingers as if brushing away dirt. “As I said, dull. Leave it on the desk Mycroft, then kindly go away.”

    Sherlock heard a small thud as the package was placed somewhere on his clutter-filled desk.

    There was a heavy pause; Sherlock didn’t need to look to know that Mycroft was staring trying to determine how far he could convince his brother in celebrating his birthday. Finally, Mycroft sighed again. “Happy fifteenth birthday, Sherlock,” he said quietly, and before Sherlock could form a snarky reply, his bedroom door shut with a quiet click.

* * *

    An hour, maybe two, passed before Sherlock gave in to boredom and decided to open the package. Heaving himself over to the desk, he grabbed the box and sat on the edge of his bed.

    It really was quite plain; the only wrapping was brown paper, the handwriting on the front unmistakably Aunt Lucy’s. Tearing into the box, Sherlock pulled out a set of pencils and a pad of plain paper. Stuck onto the sketchbook was a note:

        _Sherlock,_

_I know you didn’t want anything for your birthday, but I saw this in a shop and thought you’d like it, to record your observations-deductions, I think you called them-visually as well as writing them down. The more you look, the more you’ll see._

_-Lucy_

`    Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he read the note; perhaps Aunt Lucy wasn’t as idiotic as he’d thought. Thinking about the advantages to drawing what he observed (there was the benefit of visual learning and memory recall), he settled in and opened the pack of pencils.

* * *

****  


Sherlock had decided that his Aunt Lucy was definitely not an idiot. Drawing had absorbed all his free time in between lessons and experiments since he’d opened the package, and yet, Sherlock hadn’t grown bored of it. It was, he mused, one of the few things that grew more interesting the more often he did it. He’d thought that would changed once he became good, but in the end, there was so much to learn that there seemed to be no end to techniques and subjects.  Sherlock had gotten the hang of inanimate objects, and had moved on to people and animals. He didn’t expect to stop anytime soon.

He was now in the middle of sketching his microscope (turning out quite well, so far), when Mycroft entered his room.

“It is generally considered polite to knock, Mycroft,” Sherlock said in lieu of a greeting. “What do you want?”

“Mummy and Father are coming home, Sherlock.”  
    Sherlock whipped his head around to stare at his brother. Twenty years old, but his voice was still filled with worry at the mention of Father, and a bit of relief, that he could hide at uni once they were home. He’d been coming back on weekends to check on Sherlock, but those visits would obviously stop.

“When?” Sherlock asked, and pretended not to notice the tremor in his voice.

Mycroft pretended too. “The day after tomorrow.” His voice was sympathetic, and he looked down nervously and smoothed his waistcoat.

Sherlock snorted derisively. “Don’t sound sorry, Mycroft. There isn’t any point, especially since once they get here you’ll scuttle of back to your studies full time.” He turned back to his drawing. “Go away Mycroft, and don’t fret; I shall be perfectly presentable when my presence is required once our parents return. Your standing with Father won’t drop.”

Sherlock could feel Mycroft’s stare on his back, but his brother said nothing, only standing there for a moment before quietly leaving.

When Sherlock’s hand trembled as he picked up another pencil, he resolutely ignored it.

* * *

The day Mummy and Father arrived was stormy, wind lashing against the house and rain pouring down, which made it, all in all, a typical February at the estate.

Sherlock stood quietly by Mycroft as their parents stepped inside. They certainly looked as if they’d been on holiday; Mummy was tan, her black hair more shiny, and Richard-Father- was slightly larger than when they’d left, though his cold brown eyes hadn't changed at all. Mummy hugged Sherlock, and her familiar scent filled his nose. _It’s a shame you can’t draw scents,_ he thought.

Dinner was quiet, filled with the same discomfort that appeared whenever they all ate together. Sherlock picked at the food on his plate, almost flinching when Father cleared his throat.

“So, boy.” Father’s voice was oily-full of distrust and deceit. Sherlock hated it. “I sincerely hope you’ve been acting a respectable manner while your mother and I were away.”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said quietly, trying to ignore the patronizing tone.

“Good.” And with that Father’s focus turned to Mycroft, and his studies at university.

After dinner Sherlock tried to slip away to his room, but was pulled back to his family by a look from Father. Sherlock reluctantly followed him into one of the vast parlors in the house. This one was color-coordinated, all of the furniture and décor being some shade of red; the velvet sofa, the thick drapes over the windows; even the carpet was a deep, blood shade. In the privacy of his head. Sherlock called it the Blood Room.

Mummy poured tea, and the four of them sat on the couch and armchairs in silence. A fire roared in the fireplace, but didn’t warm the cold atmosphere.

“You should play your violin, boy,” Father suggested, though from his lips it sounded like a demand. “That Russian piece I told you to learn.”  
Sherlock froze and could feel his heart pump faster with fear. “I...I can’t, sir,” he said quietly, looking down into his cup of tea. He didn’t want to see Father’s anger, or worse, Mycroft’s pity and Mummy’s forced cheerfulness.

“Why not?” Father demanded. Sherlock hazarded a quick glance. The large man looked furious, face beginning to turn red. “You’ve a violin, haven’t you? And a brain? Or have you been shirking on your duties as a son?” His voice got progressively louder as Father got closer to Sherlock until he stood in front of his son’s chair, eyes wild and chest heaving. Sherlock could smell the sweet stench of liquor on his breath.

“I have not practiced as much as I ought,” Sherlock confessed into his tea. He inhaled sharply as his father’s fat fingers gripped his chin, forcing Sherlock to look him in the eye.

“Why not?” The now calm voice carried all the rage as the yelling, and a promise of pain. Sherlock tried to control his fear as it pressed up against his heart, attempting to steel himself. Not even Mycroft to help him now.

“I’ve been drawing, in my free time.” Fortunately his voice did not waver, though it was a useless victory. Slowly, Father released his hold on Sherlock’s chin and exited the room, only to return a few minutes later with a pile of papers.

“Are these what you’ve been wasting your time on?” Father questioned, holding the papers up to Sherlock’s face. Each one had a drawing or sketch on it. Sherlock nodded.

Father walked over to the fireplace, and threw a few of the sketches into the flames, watching the papers curl and burn. “This,” Father said as he fed the fire, “Is what happens when you waste your time, Sherlock.” He beckoned Sherlock over to stand by him, and Sherlock watched as the past month’s work turned to ash, schooling his features to be blank.

Suddenly Father grabbed Sherlock’s right wrist, causing Sherlock’s eyes to meet his. “And if you don’t understand yet….” Father shoved Sherlock’s hand into the fire. Distantly, Sherlock noted Mummy screaming and Mycroft finally standing from his chair, a look of horror on his face, but at the forefront of his mind was _pain_ and _don’t scream, don’t flinch, you know that only makes it worse_. Finally, after seconds that felt like hours, Father released his wrist and Sherlock pulled his hand from the fire, stumbling back from this monster he called Father. The world was too bright, too loud, and Mummy was crying and Mycroft was ushering Sherlock from the house, still looking stricken and the last words Sherlock heard Father say were screamed at him over the wind and rain as Sherlock was being led into Mycroft’s car.

“You’re useless! You useless ingrate! Come back!”

    They didn’t.

* * *

    Sherlock cradled his hand and the ice pack Mycroft had produced (somehow) as the car drove away, his teeth clenched in pain and shivering slightly in his dress shirt and slacks, soaked from the rain. Mycroft was staring at him with an expression that, had it not been Mycroft they were speaking of, Sherlock would have called heartbroken. Uncomfortable, Sherlock turned to the window and watched the raindrops race down the glass.

“I left my violin there.” His voice was quieter than he’d expected.

“Forget your damn violin Sherlock.” Sherlock looked back at Mycroft in surprise- his brother rarely swore. Was he really- Sherlock looked again and noted the clenched fists and tense posture. Yes, Mycroft was upset.

Looking at his younger brother, Mycroft forced himself to relax. “How long has the abuse been happening?” he asked, voice calm.

Sherlock shrugged. “Since you left for uni. A slap here, a belt there. Tossed all my experiments a couple times. Without the poster child, his attention turned to me. I was...lacking.” There was quiet for a moment, and Sherlock’s gaze returned to the window. “What’s going to happen to me?”

“You’ll live with me. I’ve got a suitable flat; you’ll finish out the year with tutors, then go to school in London. I’ll get you a new violin , and a new set of drawing supplies, if you get me a list. For now, however, we are going to get that-” he motioned to Sherlock’s hand. “looked at. I know a doctor.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “And Father?”

Mycroft said nothing for a minute, and when he spoke, it was slow, as if he were still thinking as he said them. “That’s up to you. Say the word and I’ll find a solicitor, go after him for all he’s worth. If not, that’s fine too. Either way, you don’t have to see him if it isn’t your express wish to do so.”  
    “He’ll be diagnosed with liver failure within the month, anyway, the way he drinks,” Sherlock replied, shooting Mycroft a mirthless twitch of the lips. “Statistically his odds of survival are low, even if he gets on the donor list. That’s sufficient for me.”

Mycroft nodded. The rest of the ride’s silence was punctuated only by the rain and spinning of tyres.

* * *

Sherlock picked up the pencil, pleased to note that his hand didn’t protest to the movement as he put the graphite to paper. He was, Mycroft’s doctor informed him, extremely lucky to have regained full use of his hand, with minimal scarring.

It had been two months since he’d moved in with Mycroft, and as Sherlock predicted, Father’s liver failure had made itself known, and had at most two years to live with around the clock treatment. Sherlock didn’t deny himself the satisfaction of being right.

He was pulled out of the trance he always entered when drawing, surprised to find that it was already evening, the streetlights flickering to life outside his window, room filled with shadow.

Mycroft leaned against the doorjamb, suit jacket hanging by a finger over his shoulder. He looked exhausted, and in his face Sherlock could read the stress of the job in the government he’d gotten a month ago.

“You’ll get the promotion,” he said calmly. Mycroft started, as if he’d forgotten Sherlock was there.

“I certainly hope so,” Mycroft said wearily.

Sherlock snorted. “How could you not? Graduated early from uni, extremely good at what you do. Smart enough to follow orders and smart enough not  to follow them when needed. Sneaky. You’re the perfect bureaucrat, Mycroft. You’ll get the promotion.”  
    The corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifted in a sardonic half-grin. “Only you could succeed in making a compliment sound so thoroughly like an insult.”

Sherlock shrugged. “What did you expect? Even if you single-handedly become the British Government, I’d be hard pressed to be anything resembling kind or polite. Now piss off. I need to get the shading correct, and you’re spoiling the mood.” With that, he turned back to his drawing of the man he’d seen walk by the flat that morning _(_ _fascinating really, the way his two  affairs were written on his clothes. Sherlock supposed they had to be prostitutes- why else would anyone sleep with such an  obviously annoying being? Now if he could just fix this angle…)_

Sherlock didn’t notice Mycroft turning on the light before he left.


	2. Funeral

The day that Sherlock’s father died was, coincidentally, his last day of school, a surprisingly sunny and warm day in June. Sherlock escaped the red brick building with a sigh of relief, tugging at his tie and pulling off his jacket to roll his sleeves up as he melted into the thriving mass of people that made up London. Jacket crooked over his shoulder in one hand, a stack of books in the other, he was weaving through the crowds when a plain black car rolled up beside him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he stepped up to the rear window _._ _Bloody Mycroft._ His brother, now twenty two, had risen high in the ranks, commanding more people than commanded him, and while his position left Sherlock alone more often than not, Mycroft made up for his absence in other ways. Like CCTV footage and unmarked cars.

As he approached, the tinted window rolled down to reveal a blonde woman tapping away at her planner. Mycroft’s newest assistant- young, pretty, utterly forgettable; on each occasion Sherlock had seen her, she had taken on a new name.

“Sherlock,” she greeted. “How are you? I understand you’ll be in uni next fall.” Even her voice was generic, no inflection, as if she’d parroted the words.

“What does Mycroft want now?” Sherlock asked, exasperated.

Shockingly, she actually looked up from her screen. “It’s about your father.”

Sherlock stiffened, then nodded shortly and opened the door, sliding into the air conditioned car. It smelled like leather-all of Mycroft’s cars did.

“He’s dead,” Sherlock stated, voice flat. That was the only reason his brother would have bothered.

The assistant glanced up again and nodded. “Mr Holmes asked me to inquire if you’re going to attend the funeral.”

“The man beat me around, stuck my hand in a fire, and destroyed some of my most valuable work as an artist. I’m not going to his funeral, unless Mycroft wants me to spit on his grave and tell our relatives what a bastard he was, which half of them already knew and turned a blind eye to,” Sherlock replied, voice still emotionless. As the car paused for a light, Sherlock took the opportunity and opened the door. “Good day,” he said shortly, then slammed the door and made his way back to the sidewalk, ignoring the honks he received as the light turned green.

Wandering aimlessly, Sherlock lost himself in London, finally, ducking into a dingy corner coffee shop as the sun set. Sitting down with his books and a coffee, he ran his hands through his hair, trying to reign in his thoughts.

 _Breathe_ , he reminded himself. _He’s dead...can’t very well smack you now, can he?_ Slowly, Sherlock felt his heart slow as he meticulously took every thought related to his father, scattered in his mind palace, and placed them in a box, taping it shut and shoving it in the darkest corner he could find. He wouldn’t give the man the attention-let him rot away in Sherlock’s memories.

Sherlock opened his eyes and inhaled deeply, then with a mental shake, opened his pocket sketchbook and let the smooth slide of pencil on paper take him away.

* * *

“Hey mate, we’re closin,” a voice said.

Sherlock looked up to find a dark haired young man standing in front of his table, and blinked, bringing himself back to the present.

“What time is it?”

The man grinned. “Almost eleven. Got kinda carried away, huh?”

Sherlock stood and began gathering his things, but was interrupted by the man.

“Say, that’s really good, mate,” he said, admiring Sherlock’s drawing, where the view from the coffee shop window was drawn in stunningly accurate shades of grey. “D’ya draw people at all?”

Sherlock stared at the man _(_ _uni student, barely scraping by and working more shifts to pay rent. Gay, does modeling on the side for quick cash.)_ “Sometimes,” he answered cautiously, and tipped his sketchbook closed, picking up his stack of books and moving to the door.

“Well it’s just that,” the man started, somewhat nervously from behind him. Sherlock turned, and the man twisted his hands shyly. “It’s just that, I think you could probably make a living out of it. If you wanted to, I mean,” he continued.

Sherlock paused, hand on the doorknob, and nodded once, slowly. “Thank you.”

“Michael,” the man smiled. “And you’re welcome.”

Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth tip up in response. “Sherlock. Good night.”

The door jingled behind him as he walked away.

* * *

 

The day of his father’s funeral, a Sunday, Sherlock watched silently from the bottom of the stairs as Mycroft straightened his tie once more before picking up his ever-present umbrella.  Sherlock hadn’t slept in the four days since his father’s death, and found himself wondering why Mycroft always had an umbrella as his brother tapped it against his foot uncomfortably and looked at Sherlock, an odd expression-worry?- on his face.

“I shall see you later,” he said, but it came out more like a question than his usual statement of certainty.

Sherlock nodded, a sharp jerk of his head, and with a nod of his own, Mycroft opened the door and walked out to meet his car. With the __click_ _ of the door behind him, Sherlock stood and walked into the sitting room of the flat to look out the window, hands in his trouser pockets.

The weather was certainly conducive to a funeral, Sherlock decided as he observed the dark skies and heavy mist.

He supposed that he ought to feel something; anger, or a sense of righteousness that the man who had abused him was now in a box that was to be buried; that his heart was no longer beating. But all that was there was the knowledge that he was dead, and a vague satisfaction that Sherlock didn’t have to go to the funeral.

On impulse, Sherlock picked up one of his numerous sketchbooks and a few pencils, barely pausing to throw on a blue jumper over his shirt as he closed the door of the flat behind him.

 _God, London is beautiful_.  Not even bothering to consult his mental map, he set off down the street, dying to get away from the scent of entitlement and power that filled Mycroft’s flat. He took a breath, held it; reluctant to let go of the rain-tinged air in his lungs. London, he decided, was the kind of city that filled your lungs, your heart, your very bones with something indescribable. It  made Sherlock want to discover and know every inch, to render it in breathtaking detail in charcoal, pencil, paint, anything he could get his hands on, so long as he captured the essence of London that kept it so fascinating, regardless of how long he’d been there.

He ended up at a corner café, poor profits-wise but with good food and coffee. Running a hand through his damp hair, Sherlock sipped at his drink while studying the other customers, finally deciding on an old man who didn’t look ready to leave any time soon. Settled, the coffee was set down and ignored in favour of flipping to an empty page.

As the graphite glided across the paper, something settled down in Sherlock’s chest, a feeling similar to the completion of an experiment or the last note of a concerto. The wrinkles on the man’s brow ( _ex fisherman_ ) _,_ the way his hair looked uncombed, his familiarity with the staff _, (_ _the only place he goes on Sundays, just from home to here_ ), everything in this man he didn’t know-but at the same time, _knew_ _,_ deeply-came bleeding out from his eyes to his hands to the page, a whole story spelled out in lines and shades.

Just as Sherlock made the finishing touches on the creases of his subject’s jacket, the man stood and exited the café, heading down the street in a slow walk, not minding the light rain. Sherlock sat there for a moment, took a sip of his coffee, and grimaced as the bitter cold liquid hit his tongue. Slipping a fiver under the cup, he collected his things and left.

He took a cab back to the flat, reveling in the quiet of a sated mind that came with drawing. He wondered whether the sight of raindrops racing down the window would always remind him of the last night he’d seen his father, then decided he didn’t much care and looked at his hands instead, noting the gray smudges and faint scars and how they shook slightly, probably from the large amounts of caffeine he’d consumed instead of sleeping.

When he arrived, Sherlock made it to the old fashioned sofa in the sitting room before he succumbed finally to fatigue, falling asleep to the sound of rain on the roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...how'd I do so far? I kind of started this piece with no idea where I was going with it and it took off from there. I've got about five ada half chapters written so far, and I'll update when I can (mostly on weekends).  
> Some notes on the timeline: in general, the piece is spaced out so that by the time John enters for ASiP, Sherlock is somewhere around 31-33. In this chapter Sherlock is 17 or 18, in the early to mid 1990s. Texting was first used in 1994 or 95, but instead of worrying about historical inaccuracy on that front I had Mycroft's assistant use an electronic planner, which holds appointments and reminders.  
> Comments/criticism always welcome :)


	3. Wilkes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: language, homophobic language, references to non con.

Christ he despised Sebastian Wilkes. He supposed the man’s idiocy should have been apparent from the start, considering that Wilkes came from old money, and was used to using it to gain popularity, to get out of trouble. But Sherlock had hoped that perhaps they could at least remain polite and out of each other’s way.

Apparently not. It had started with petty insults, provocations. Those didn’t matter, but this-growling in frustration, Sherlock looked through his desk once again for sketchbooks, pencils, years of work that wasn’t there. He ought to find Sebastian and wring the bastard’s neck. The data he’d lost.

 _No_ , he reminded himself sharply. _Control. Anger is what Wilkes wants. Don’t give it to him. Use your mind and think. That’s what will get the work back._ Breathing deeply, Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed, grinding his palms into his eye sockets in an attempt to calm himself, make his ragged breathing quiet.

Okay. Now to find every deduction, every detail Sherlock had filed away on Sebastian Wilkes.

University blokes in a university pub- Sebastian was quite lacking in his taste of hangout.Sherlock could feel the cheapness coming off of the building in waves. _(Questionable foundation, watered down booze, underage drinking, drugs, gambling, overlooked for the profits they bring in. Used to keep the place from going under but mainly to fuel the owner’s own habit.)_

Straightening his jacket, Sherlock braced himself and stepped inside. It smelled of beer, whisky, marijuana; dozens of perfumes and colognes, datadatadata overloading his senses. _Breathe. Focus. Wilkes, work. Then you can leave._

Sebastian was at one of the corner tables, the dim lighting just bright enough to see him surrounded by their peers- good. The easiest way to destroy someone is in front of a pack.

“Holmes!” Sebastian greeted boisterously, raising his glass as Sherlock found his way through the people. “Finally come to blow off some steam, eh?” His smile appeared friendly, but a closer look showed malice. “Have a seat!”

Sherlock stayed standing and affected an air of nonchalance, hands in pockets, calm exterior. “No thanks. Where are they, Wilkes?”

Sebastian laughed and looked around, then back to Sherlock and shrugged. “Sorry, what?”

“My drawings. Sketchbooks, pencils; I know you took them, and I want them back.” Sherlock’s voice was still pleasant. He smiled a bit. “It’s really just a question of when you’ll return them. Would you prefer before, or after I air every secret you have, every skeleton you thought you’d buried?”

The other people at the table had begun to pay attention to them, drinks and gossip forgotten in favour of the drama playing out before them.

Wilkes shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about Holmes. And I haven’t got anything to hide.” ( _Ah there it was...the first hint of fear.)_

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. “No? Then I suppose you’re fine with-” he looked at the blonde sitting next to Sebastian, “Madeline, was it?” She nodded cautiously and Sherlock continued. “I’m sure you’re fine with Madeline here knowing that you cheated on her no more than an hour ago, and everyone else knowing that it was with a man, interesting considering your past proclamations of homophobia, that ‘fucking poofs shouldn’t show their face around me.’ Overcompensating?”

The table was hushed, quiet in jarring discord with the noise of the rest of the pub as Wilkes’ face grew red and he sputtered. “You...bastard! How could you…”

“No, perfectly legitimate, I’m afraid. And I simply observed Sebastian; it’s the same way I know you’re on your way to a debilitating addiction to meth and cocaine. Wouldn’t Mummy and Daddy just love to hear about what their dear boy is doing at his prestigious university?”

Wilkes jumped to his feet. “Shut up!” he yelled, pointing at Sherlock. “You shut your fucking mouth, Holmes, and get out of here.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Gladly, as soon as I have my things back. Can you do that, or should I tell them about the bed wetting? You can always-”

“Okay!” Sebastian was heaving and there it was: panic. “I’ll get your stuff, just- give me a minute!”  
“You have two, starting,” Sherlock said, looking down at his watch, ”now.”

As Sebastian disappeared to the back room, murmurs began circulating through the group that had gathered around the table. Sebastian’s girlfriend- ex, now, Sherlock supposed- was crying. Sherlock stood still, not acknowledging any of the looks or whispers, simply waiting, watching the time.

Wilkes came running out with a bag, shoving it at Sherlock, who calmly reached out and took hold of the strap before looking down at his watch with a frown.

A faked sound of sympathy came from Sherlock’s throat. “Three minutes, Sebastian. Too bad really- now all your friends will know that you pissed the bed until the age of thirteen. Ah well,” Sherlock said pleasantly, and threw the strap of the bag over his shoulder after checking that all of his belongings were there. “Have a good rest of your evening,” he greeted, and turned to leave.

“You bastard!” Wilkes shouted after him. “You fucking poofter!”

Sherlock turned back as he reached the door and smiled. His voice was at a normal level, but a hush had fallen over the room at Sebastian’s outburst.

“Still legitimate. And I believe the saying goes...takes one to know one?”

He didn’t look back again after that, pushing open the door and ignoring the dull roar of voices behind him as gossip began to fly. The night was chilly, a welcome difference from the suffocating heat of the pub. Sherlock exhaled, watched his breath turn to vapor. When he got to the corner he threw up a hand, pleased when a cab pulled over.

He was aware that Sebastian wouldn’t be able to accept his humiliation. As he stared out the cab window, Sherlock conceded to himself that it was likely Wilkes wouldn’t fight fair, either; being jumped when he wasn’t paying attention was far more Sebastian’s style.

But that could wait for later. Now, Sherlock would happily ride the wave of satisfaction that came from winning. He had his work back.

When the cab driver stopped in front of campus, Sherlock paid him and briskly walked back to his room, grin of victory gracing his lips.

Being aware of something, Sherlock thought, does not make one any more prepared for it. A muted curse left his throat as he was shoved face first up against the brick wall outside his dorm and another well placed hit slammed into his kidneys.

He’d been coming back from the shops, being forced to go after he’d ran out of tea and biscuits. He’d been in a hurry; it was dark (ten, eleven o’clock? Sherlock couldn’t be sure) and the blow to the back of his head was completely unexpected.

Now, someone (there were two of them) was grabbing his wrists, forcing them behind his back. Breathing through his bloody nose (god he hated the feeling of blood in his nostrils) Sherlock ground his teeth as a dark chuckle sounded in the night.

“You’ve got a big mouth, Holmes,” Sebastian said, anger filling his tone. “Takes one to know one, huh?” Another rough shove. Sherlock bit back a swear at the flare of pain. “I wonder how good that mouth would look around my cock, hmm? Rather pretty, I’d think- it’d shut you up, for once. Though you know what would be prettier?  You gagged, tied, helpless, with my prick in your arse.”

Sherlock could hear Wilkes’ companion shifting uncomfortably off to the side, but ignored him, directing his response to Sebastian.

“Too bad you’ll never know,” a faint glimmer of dark amusement in his  voice. “And do you know why, Wilkes?”

Silence.

“Because you won’t rape me.”

“No.”

“No.” Sherlock’s voice hardened. “Because the other night? Was just the beginning. You lay a hand on me, I’ll _ruin_ you, Sebastian Wilkes. Rape me? I’m studying chemistry and criminology. I’ll take every piece of fucking evidence myself, preserve it; take pictures of my injuries. Scotland Yard’s simplest case of the decade. You’ll be nailed to the cross, and rapist junkies don’t become bankers, don’t become successful and they don’t  receive inheritances. And accomplices?” Sherlock’s voice raised a bit. “Accomplices go to jail too.”

Sherlock grinned as the sounds of retreating footsteps reached his ears. Only Sebastian left then. The other man grown stiff as Sherlock’s speech had gone on, and the indecision mixed with fear practically filled the air. Finally, with a growl, WIlkes let Sherlock off the wall and shoved him away.

“You stay,” he hissed, jabbing a finger toward Sherlock, “the hell away from me, Holmes, and keep your fucking mouth shut.”

Sherlock dabbed at the blood dripping from his nose (not broken, fortunately) and stared at Sebastian. “Stay away from   _me_ , Wilkes, and we shan’t have any problems. Keep trying to extract petty revenge, and well,” he bared his teeth in a predatory grin, “we both know what happens.” With that, he turned and continued back to the dorm, picking up his discarded bag of tea and biscuits, making his way by the watery lights on the outside of the building.

He did not look back.

Sebastian Wilkes never spoke, never acknowledged him, again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update next weekend :) Comments/criticism welcome.


	4. Cocaine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: references to cancer, drug use, drug overdose.

Sherlock used to hate needles. In his childhood he had been terrible with receiving vaccinations; during his teenage years he cajoled, manipulated, and blackmailed his way out of as many as he could. Something about cool, thin metal pumping him full of whatever substance awoke an irrational fear in his stomach.

Funny how things changed. Or, if not funny, at least somewhat ironic, Sherlock mused as he watched the syringe push the cocaine into his circulatory system. Vaguely, he recalled something he’d said to someone about cocaine addictions being debilitating. A smile saturated in self-loathing flitted across his face as Sherlock looked around him at the dank hovel of a flat he could barely afford.

Yes. Debilitating was certainly the word. In the four short (yet interminably long) months since he’d graduated from uni _(since Victor had...no)_ Sherlock had squandered all the money he’d had, gotten kicked out of every flat he’d rented, and- in desperation after Mycroft stopped sending him money and took control of the trust- performed sexual favours for cocaine. _(And don’t forget that one time, when you did it for your landlord in lieu of rent.)_

Fortunately, being high-or almost high, or coming down off a high, or preparing to get high- didn’t really let him think about it (or _him_ ) too much.

Regarding the needle still sticking out of his arm with a detached curiosity, Sherlock wondered how much he’d have to take to die.

* * *

6 MONTHS EARLIER

Sherlock woke up when the light coming in through the window made the room too bright for him to ignore it.

Grumbling in dissatisfaction, he rolled over, legs getting tangled up in the sheets. A small pang of disappointment went through him when he saw that Victor’s room was empty, then spotted the note perched on the side table. Victor’s oddly precise scrawl filled the small piece of paper.

_Sherlock-_

_Had to go to that doctor’s appointment today. Will ask about the chest pains and that cough from a couple of weeks ago-my asthma may be flaring up again. Hopefully you got a chance to sleep in; I need to do some shopping, so I should be back around one. Love you._

_-Victor_

Sherlock looked at his phone- almost eleven (had he really slept that long?). Deciding it wasn’t worth getting up yet, he flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling that had become increasingly familiar to him over the past month.

By all rights, he and Victor shouldn’t have worked so well together, Sherlock mused as his eyes followed the multitude of cracks. Victor was normal, studying English, had that ridiculous part-time dog walking job (which he supposed wasn’t so ridiculous, since it was, in a way, how they’d met, that stupid dog biting Sherlock in the park that day). Average height, brow eyes and hair; freckles. The man that read him Robert Frost during the recovery from the dog bite should have annoyed him to no end. Instead, there was a quiet but extraordinary depth to Victor. He accepted, loved Sherlock and everything that came with that; experiments were interesting, criminology fascinating. Sherlock’s drawing were always met with awe and with pleased embarrassment when Victor was the subject of such beautiful scrutiny.

Laying there, Sherlock felt a warmth well up in his chest. Victor was the first romantic relationship that had lasted longer than Sherlock’s introductory deductions, the only one that had started as a friendship instead of casual sex and had slowly, sweetly, evolved into something more. Sherlock wanted it to last.

He must have dozed off again, because he woke to the sound of a key in the lock, lazily raising his head as Victor entered the room. The light was different- glancing at the clock, Sherlock was surprised to find that it was close to four. Victor wasn’t carrying any bags from the store, and a second look at his partner filled Sherlock with dread.

Victor was slumped over, clothes rumpled and face drawn. As Sherlock scrambled off the bed and closer to Victor, he could smell cleaning supplies and a faint tinge of blood _(hospital)._

Slowly, Victor looked up from the door. His eyes _(brown, chocolate, mud on the bottom of shoes, rich timber)_ were filled with fear. Gently, some gut instinct telling him that soft was what Victor needed, Sherlock wrapped his lover in his arms, Victor’s nose fitting in the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock stayed as Victor started to shake against him. He inhaled the scent of Victor’s hair, where he still smelled of shampoo, and felt every breath and shudder pass through his palms on Victor’s back. Worry grabbed hold in his chest, but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to speak, or even think, to deduce something he had no doubt would tear him apart.

The light slipped from the room. Voices came and went from the hall, laughter and shouting. The space grew dim as the sun set, and finally, with a shuddering breath, Victor pulled away. Bringing his arms up, stumbling fingers tried unsuccessfully to undo his buttons- slowly, lovingly, Sherlock pulled them aside, kissed Victor’s knuckles, and undid Victor’s plain blue shirt. Victor toed off his shoes and stepped out of his jeans and pants, pulled his feet out of his socks. His shaking hand grasped Sherlock’s and they got into bed, pulling up the covers as if to cocoon them away from the rest of the world.

Their lips met once, twice, softly. Sherlock felt his heart start to crack, felt it continue to split apart under his ribs like an earthquake faultline as Victor’s tear-soaked voice tripped over words like ‘stage four lung cancer’ and ‘radiation’ and ‘palliation of symptoms’. Words like ‘two months’.

Sherlock didn’t weep, didn’t speak. He reached out to Victor, holding him as close as possible, memorising every detail as Victor fell into sleep, frantically trying to save it all. Sometime that night he slipped away and drew Victor by the light of the moon, his heart filled with wonder and sadness, in awe of this beautiful man that against all odds, had stayed with him.

In the early morning, dawn barely breaking outside their window, they made love (because that’s what it was, love, regardless of what the doctors had ever said about him) and Sherlock’s heart jaggedly broke a bit more when he hoarsely whispered “I love you”, lips brushing over Victor’s skin.

* * *

 

His heart, Sherlock thought as cocaine flooded his veins, hadn’t really _stopped_ breaking. Even after Victor’s body was an empty-eyed corpse, after the pillows stopped smelling of him. Hell, even after he got addicted to coke to numb the pain, little shards of his heart were floating around in his chest cavity, stabbing him like pieces of glass.

Heartbreak was like cancer, he’d concluded. It metastasized and kept growing and hurting and sucking away at your soul (if he’d ever had a soul) until you died.

Cocaine overdose sounded more pleasant, in a way.

* * *

 

Cocaine overdose was not more pleasant, in any way. He couldn’t stop _shaking_ fingers and hands and neck and leg _(your foot bone’s connected to your leg bone, leg bone’s connected to your hip bone)_ and his lungs were breathingbreathingbreathing _(inhale exhale fill empty)_ head pounding _(marching drums parades military God someone make it stop)._

Shuddering, he tried to make it across the room to his mobile but he fell over as he stood, hit his spine on the chair _(hip bone’s connected to your backbone)_. He pulled himself back up, staggering but on two feet _(drunk..nonono not drunk-high, high on cocaine...too much cocaine need to phone Mycroft mobile phone ring ring hello)._

The carpet smelled like vomit. Sherlock wondered how he knew that, then noticed the room was all...sideways _(did the room tilt I didn’t know rooms could do tilt how does that work nono wait sideways-sideways means floor means falling, fallen, fell, verb)._

His shaky fingers reached out, glistening _(glitter shiny vampires? No not glitter vampires, vampires are blood sweat tears)_ with sweat and grasped his mobile, frantically pulling  to toward him. Sherlock held it by his face, tried to remember if Mycroft was on speed dial _(speed drugs coke overdose Mycroft help)_ , couldn’t, and pressed nine three times instead _(three times three is nine three squared in nine squares roots irrational numbers sentiment)._

“Nine nine nine, what’s your  emergency?”

“Victor made me overdoes on sentiment and now he’s buried in the ground his coffin was too pretty made me sad and heartbreak is cancer but cocaine doesn’t make it better it’s just as bad bad bad Sherlock I’m so sorry sorry sorry.” The woman was talking but she need to listen, listen, _listen to me boy._

“Sir there’s an officer en route to your location. Please stay on the line.”

* * *

 

Beeping. Beeping, and his body felt as if he’d been run over by a car. _(Had he? No- no physical injuries other than bruises, just a pounding head, sore muscles.)_ Wherever he was smelled like antiseptic- hospital then, the beeping would be the heart monitor.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He was in a white bed in a white room, and Mycroft was standing by the window in a very grey suit. There was tension in his shoulders, and as he turned around, lines of worry appeared around his eyes and mouth

“I haven’t been in a hospital since Victor died.” Sherlock’s voice was creaky, like he hadn’t spoken in a while.  
“You overdosed on cocaine. Had the mind to phone nine-nine-nine, at least.” _(What am I doing here? I’m glad you’re alive. Subtext was their language.)_

“Are you going to make me get clean?”

Mycroft moved from the window to sit in the chair by Sherlock’s bedside. His brother’s fingers drummed on the armrest. “I’m not going to make you, no,” he replied carefully. “I’ve never been able to make you do anything, Sherlock. But I will provide treatment for you to get clean, if that’s what you desire.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “I’d like to meet the officer who found me, if they’re still here.”

Mycroft nodded and left the room. A few minutes later he returned, opening the door and letting another man in before leaving again.

The officer _(recently promoted, late thirties, marital problems due to his job)_ cleared his throat uncomfortably _(unsure how to act around someone he’s saved)_ and sat down in the chair.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing….better,” he said, eyes flickering back and forth between Sherlock and the door. “You were in a pretty bad way.”

“Does your wife know you spent the night at the hospital worrying over a drug addict?”

The man coughed. “Ah….no.. Lestrade, by the way. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.”

Sherlock looked over at the officer-Lestrade- and raised an eyebrow _(didn’t ask how I knew about the wife. Interesting.)_ “Sherlock Holmes. Why was a DI assigned to pick up an emergency call for an overdose?”  
Lestrade shrugged and ran a hand through his black hair. “I was in the area. Glad I was, in a way; had to do CPR on you until the ambulance arrived. Even after they had you on the stretcher you kept babbling. Told me my whole life story.”

Sherlock took a moment to process that. Deducing while high...explained why Lestrade hadn’t stumbled at the question about his wife.

Lestrade’s phone rang, and the DI shifted to pull it out of his pocket and check the screen.

“My wife,” he said with a rueful grin, and moved to leave, but paused by the door. “If...if you decide to get clean, and manage it, drop me a dime, yeah?” he said, and pulled out a business card, writing something on the back with a pen sitting on the side table. “My personal mobile number’s on the back. Wouldn’t mind hearing from you.” Setting the card on the table, Lestrade nodded a goodbye. “Cheers to meeting you, Sherlock,” he said, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never overdosed on cocaine, so I've got no idea what that's actually like, other than some research i did on the internet about what physically happens in the body. If you feel I've gotten something wrong, let me know :) Other than that, Victor and Sherlock's story does deviate a bit from canon, but I do think it's more interesting when authors put their own small twists in a story. Happy Friday, btw! Comments/criticism always welcome :)


	5. Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“And I thought you were impressive high.” He seemed to realize what he’d said, and looked at Sherlock, a semi-panicked look on his face._   
> _Sherlock looked back calmly. “The cocaine did...hinder my skills, I must admit. And you can’t imagine how horrible portraits come out when you’ve taken enough to feel like a kite.”_   
> _Lestrade’s brow crinkled. “Portraits?”_   
> _“Mm, yes,” Sherlock said, pulling his briefcase towards him and flipping the latches. “I’m an artist,” he explained, waving pieces of paper covered in drawings at the DI. “Goes well with the detective work. Have you got a wall I can pin these on?” _  
>  _Lestrade laughed, exhaustion leaking through his movements as he rose from the couch. “You’re something, Sherlock Holmes.”___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: contemplation of drug use

As Lestrade’s car pulled up, Sherlock exhaled the smoke from his lungs, watching it dissipate in the milky illumination of the light by Lestrade’s door.

Lestrade looked exhausted; his shoulders slumped, and his clothes and stubble told the story of two-no, three- nights spent either sleepless or drowsing at the Yard. As he climbed the stairs to his flat, Lestrade fumbled with his keys, pausing in surprise when he saw Sherlock leaning against the wall.

“You’re going grey,” Sherlock stated as he exhaled again.

Lestrade rose his eyebrows. “No need to tell me.” He looked at Sherlock’s cigarette, but said nothing, instead turning to unlock the door. “Kind of surprised you didn’t break in,” Lestrade said over one shoulder as he walked inside and made a beeline for the kitchen.

The flat was, as Sherlock had expected, fairly sparse-simple but comfortable furniture, a few pictures of his family; a typical living space for a recently divorced man who spent more time at work than home. In response to Lestrade’s comment he simply shrugged as he set down the beat-up black briefcase he’d brought along.

“I thought it might be impolite for the first meeting. I won’t hold back in the future.”

Sherlock could hear a huff of laughter as Lestrade re-entered the living room and settled onto the couch. “Kettle’s on- hope you’re fine with Earl Grey.” There was a pause while the DI turned his gaze to Sherlock, brown eyes taking in his appearance, a disheveled shirt and jeans, hair long and mussed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped into an armchair, slouching into the cushion. “I’m clean, Lestrade. Just over six months now.”

Lestrade nodded. “Good. I’m assuming you need a place to crash?” he questioned, looking at the briefcase.

Sherlock shifted. “If you don’t mind. It would only be for a few days, until I got my own place.”

The kettle started to shriek and Lestrade got up, snorting in response to Sherlock’s answer. “Course I don’t mind- barely here, anyway. Just don’t muck the place up too much. Cream?”

Sherlock lithely followed Lestrade into the kitchen. “yes. Sugar as well-two.” They waited in the kitchen as the tea steeped, then reclaimed their seats in the living room.

“How did you get my address?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock froze momentarily, but relaxed when curiosity was all he found in Lestrade’s question. “Mycroft.”

Lestrade chuckled, then turned on the telly to some sports match, and both of them sat quietly with their tea, Lestrade concentrating on the screen, and Sherlock on the flat. When his mug was empty he shifted awkwardly, then cleared his throat.

“Can I use your shower?”  
Lestrade looked over at Sherlock, a mildly confused expression on his face. “Sure. Why wouldn’t you? Down the hall on your left,” he said, pointing. “Dunno if you’ve got a change of clothes in that thing, but if not you can borrow some of mine- you’re skinnier than I am, but they should fit okay.”

Sherlock blinked, then got up and headed for the bathroom. On the way, though, he paused and looked back at Lestrade whose attention was already fixed on the screen again.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Lestrade didn’t hear him.

 

“It was the brother,” Sherlock said, then flinched slightly when Lestrade jumped and whipped his head around to stare. Sherlock had borrowed a pair of grey plaid pyjama bottoms and a plain white t-shirt, both hanging off his frame. His hair was frazzled, but clean.

Lestrade, who hadn’t changed out of his rumpled suit, looked back at the case file on the coffee table, rubbing his eyes. “What?” he finally asked, weary.

Sherlock came around the back of the couch and sat next to Lestrade, gesturing to the papers and pictures on the table. “You think it was someone she didn’t know. It was the brother.”  
Lestrade looked at Sherlock. “She didn’t have a brother.”

A quick grin flashed over Sherlock’s face. “Oh but she did. Not a complete blood relative, of course- probably a half or stepbrother she had as a child but one that left when their parents- her mother, his father- got divorced.”

Lestrade looked stunned. “How-”

Sherlock pointed first to the statements from neighbours, family, friends. “You thought it was a stranger because she had other plans that day, because she hadn’t mentioned anything about anyone coming over. Therefore, you supposed an unexpected stranger- but an unexpected familiar person is just as-in face, more-likely.

“She let them in, first of all, something indicative of trust, and did not dress up for them, meaning she felt comfortable with them. She fed them, making it even more likely she was close to this person. People aren’t that hospitable to strangers-not even very nice people like her. But you’ve interviewed everyone she’s in contact with- which means it was someone from her past. Mother has a habit of remarrying, and who do you trust as much as your friends? Someone you’ve lived with. Sibling is more likely than parent, male more likely than female considering the physical strength needed to manually strangle someone. Younger, probably- just killed her, so he has recently become independent enough to feel confident about not being a suspect.”  
Lestrade blinked rapidly and looked back and forth between Sherlock and the case file. “That was...absolutely mad- mad and brilliant.” The older man leaned back and ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head in awe. “And I thought you were impressive high.” He seemed to realize what he’d said, and looked at Sherlock, a semi-panicked look on his face.

Sherlock looked back calmly. “The cocaine did...hinder my skills, I must admit. And you can’t imagine how horrible portraits come out when you’ve taken enough to feel like a kite.”

Lestrade’s brow crinkled. “Portraits?”

“Mm, yes,” Sherlock said, pulling his briefcase towards him and flipping the latches. “I’m an artist,” he explained, waving pieces of paper covered in drawings at the DI. “Goes well with the detective work. Have you got a wall I can pin these on?”  
Lestrade laughed, exhaustion leaking through his movements as he rose from the couch. “You’re something, Sherlock Holmes,” he said as he walked to the bedroom, then paused at the beginning of the hallway. “Something I’m glad didn’t die in some tiny flat. Just,” he waved at the room, “put em wherever.” He turned to continue to his bed, but paused again. “And Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up from his drawings, and Lestrade smiled at this wild-haired genius sitting in his flat.

“I’ve got some cold cases, if you want to take a look tomorrow.”

* * *

“Oh shut _up_ , Donovan!” Sherlock snapped, whirling around in frustration. “God, why must you chat so incessantly?” Sherlock’s eyes were full of anger- why couldn’t the incompetents at the Yard _listen_ to him, if they were stupid enough to need his help.

Donovan opened her mouth to retort, but was thwarted by Lestrade, who stepped between them and laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. Silently, Sherlock grabbed his coat and followed Lestrade out of the conference room.

“I just need the blood-” Sherlock began as they walked through the front lobby, but Lestrade waved a hand to cut him off.

“No,” Lestrade stated, looking at Sherlock evenly as he paused outside the Yard. “We’re not going to talk shop,” he continued, then tugged Sherlock’s hand out of his coat pocket, where it had been curled in a mutinous fist and using it to lead the consulting detective around to one side of the building. Silently, Lestrade let go of the other man to dip into his own pocket and pull out a pack of cigarettes.   
Sherlock looked on quizzically as Lestrade pulled to cigs from the carton and handed one to Sherlock.

“Now,” Lestrade said, after he’d lit his own, gesturing to Sherlock with the lighter. “We’re going to take a half hour smoke break, because you’ve not had a fag in days and I’m getting sick of you and Donovan- or heaven help me Anderson- trying to tear each other’s head off. So,” he flicked the lighter, allowing the flame to dance on the end, “let’s inhale some tar.”

Sherlock hesitated, somewhat surprised, then stuck the cigarette between his lips and cupped the flame to it. He had to admit, Lestrade made sense sometimes- the rush of nicotine was far more gentle than cocaine, but as they stood there against the wall of the Met in a twilight-covered London Sherlock could feel the tension of the past three days curling out of his body with each plume of smoke.

Lestrade broke the silence. “So..how’s the whole artist thing going?”  
Sherlock turned his head and looked at the inspector sharply. “Why?”

Lestrade shrugged, still staring into the distance as he replied. “Just wondering, Sherlock.”

“It’s going….well,” Sherlock said after a moment. “Now that I’ve got the flat on Montague, I put an ad in the papers. For models.”  
Lestrade glanced at him. “And they don’t leave in a huff?”

Sherlock shifted. “A few,” he admitted. “But mostly the ones with prior experience. The majority of them are just...normal people, looking for a bit of cash. I pay well, and in return they sit for me. The ones I don’t like, I turn down.”

Lestrade nodded and took another drag. “That’s good,” he said when he released the breath. “That’s really good, Sherlock.”

Another few minutes passed in quiet before Sherlock spoke again, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the ground. “I was wondering if I could draw you, Lestrade.”

Lestrade coughed in surprise. “What?” he gasped on a shuddering breath.

“Not like..that, Lestrade. I am aware you aren’t gay. You wouldn’t even have to be at the flat. It could be at a crime scene, for all I care.”

“Why?” Lestrade questioned, puzzled.

Sherlock took a long pull of his cigarette and exhaled it before he looked Lestrade in the eyes. “I had...someone, who left and- I didn't capture him as much as I should have until it was too late. You’ve done a great deal for me, Lestrade, and I’d prefer to draw you now, while you’re still going strong. If you’d rather not, I understand,” he finished quietly, and looked away.

“Hey,” Lestrade said gently, loosely taking ahold of Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock looked up into brown eyes, still as kind as when they’d first met. “You can draw me, Sherlock. Whenever. And I won’t complain. Unless you make me fat.”

Sherlock snorted, and an easy grin slid onto Lestrade’s face.

“C’mon,” Lestrade said as he stubbed out his cigarette on the pavement. “let’s go see if the blood test results are in.”

* * *

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

The unceasing tone on his mobile abruptly pulled Sherlock out of his stupor, leaving his mind to flail against the rush of sensory input and emotional overload. Breathing heavily, Sherlock waited for it to stop, until with a final blare of sound, the phone switched to voicemail.

Sherlock’s chest felt as if it was caving in, the thin blanket enveloped over his shoulders doing nothing to ward off the chill. Dully, he realized the flat was almost pitch black, barely lit by a streetlamp outside. The box on the coffee table was a mere black shape, unidentifiable amongst the piles of books and papers except for the complete focus Sherlock gave it.

It would be so, so easy, to make it go away. To flood his veins with chemical relief and make his skin stop longing for touch.

Lost in the memories of the numbness cocaine brought, Sherlock jumped when his flat echoed with the sound of someone’s fist on his door. Staying seated, he fervently hoped whoever was on the other side would leave, leave him...well, not in peace, but at least alone in his self-destruction.

Instead, the sound of a key scratching at the tumblers reached Sherlock’s ears and his stomach dropped in dismay.

“Christ, Sherlock,” Lestrade complained. “Why the bloody hell is it so dark in here?” A light flickered on and then quietly, as if speaking to a frightened animal, Lestrade said, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock slowly looked at Lestrade. “You should leave.” His voice was raw, but monotonous.

“Sod that,” Lestrade said, picking his way through the debris to the couch Sherlock was perched on. “I called you at least five times-I thought you’d-” Lestrade stopped suddenly as he spotted the open box, and the vial and syringe it held. Sherlock felt hands on his face hold him still for inspection, distantly noting the other man’s panic, but couldn’t bring himself to feel anything past the pain.

Lestrade was talking, asking him if he’d taken any, if he’d relapsed. Sherlock shook his head, and felt himself be enclosed by warm arms.

“Jesus, sunshine,” Lestrade whispered into his hair. “Why do you even have that stuff? Why would you _want_ that again?”

Lestrade was much warmer than the blanket; when his questions reached Sherlock’s foggy mind, a pain-filled statement left his lips.

“It hurts, Lestrade. Right here,” he whispered, placing a hand over the older man’s heart. “Sometimes...sometimes without him, it feels like I can’t breathe, but then I do, and it’s just so wrong.”

“Without who?” Lestrade’s voice rumbled gently against Sherlock’s fingertips.

“Victor.”  
“Is Victor...dead?”

Sherlock’s body shook as he nodded, and it shook as tears began to drip down his face and soak Lestrade’s shirt. And Lestrade just held him, rubbing his shoulders and carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair _(it reminded him of Mummy, when he was much, much younger, terrified by imaginary monsters instead of real ones)_ until he dropped off the sheer cliff face of consciousness into slumber.

* * *

When he woke, Sherlock’s eyes were scratchy and his throat felt hoarse, his head full of cotton balls. As he became more aware, he noticed the faint dawn light coming through the window and Lestrade quietly watching Sherlock come awake.

“Better?” he asked kindly. Sherlock shrugged, and Lestrade reached out to the coffee table, grabbing a steaming mug and holding it out. Slowly, Sherlock wrapped his hands around it and took a sip of the tea; a small smile appeared when he realised it was made just as he liked it.

“Tell me about Victor,” Lestrade said, but his words were more of a request than an order.

So Sherlock did. In between drinking the tea he told Lestrade about Victor Trevor, who liked dogs and lazy mornings and endeavored to expand Sherlock’s knowledge of literature.

“His father and I were on ill terms-essentially told Victor I was unreliable and odd, but I knew it was because I made him uncomfortable with my deductions. Victor didn’t care. He chose me, and I never...never told him what that meant to me,” Sherlock said, and fell silent, the air filled with grief and memories.

“How did he die?” Lestrade prompted.

“Lung cancer-stage four, too late to do anything when he found out. He barely lasted two months, died just before graduation. His family didn’t speak to me at the funeral. Sometimes, I think about what’s happening to his bones, his beautiful body and it just-” Sherlock cut himself off with a shaky breath.

“I drew him so much, after he told me. Once a day, at least, just so I could remember him. But now it’s been a year and between the cocaine and time…”

One of Lestrade’s hands came up to run gently through his hair.

“I know,” he said, voice full of sorrow. “You start to forget the little things, like how they smelled or the way their eyes sparkled. But Sherlock,” he nudged Sherlock’s chin to raise the other man’s eyes to his own, “there are some things you never forget. Like holding them, or their laughter. What you did together. And it’s going to hurt, for a long while,” he said, reaching for the box. WIth a quiet snick, the lid closed, and Lestrade tapped the top. “But you don’t need this, sunshine. Not ever. Okay?”  
Sherlock stared at Lestrade, then at the box, before nodding.

“Good,” Lestrade aid, and lightly pushed against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Now go put on one of those fancy suits of yours. I’ve got a case on that I need your help with.”  
Sherlock stood and started making his way to the bedroom, then stopped and turned back to Lestrade.

“Why didn’t you say that when you first got here? It would have been more time efficient.”

Lestrade ruffled his hair, quiet for a moment. “Because that’s not what you needed. And because I care about you.”

The two men held eye contact for a moment, and then Sherlock turned to continue down the hall. “The case better be interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update for y'all! (Hope you like it.) Just to be clear this won't have a romantic relationship between Sherlock and Lestrade (though I do have plans for a sherstrade fic in the future); Lestrade, in this piece, is more like a paternal character. Next chapter is the last, which is so crazy- this fic has gone by so fast! Comments/criticism welcome :)


	6. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I think I’m in love with you,” Sherlock stated as he stared at the ceiling._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _“Sorry, what?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter guys! Hope it's written to your satisfaction :)

“No; don’t move a muscle.”

“But-”

“No.” Sherlock leveled a sharp glare at the ginger woman who sat posed on the couch facing the window. “I’ve got maybe half an hour’s work left, then you can go. John won’t care. Will you John?” He raised his voice towards the end, directing the question to his flatmate, who’d just come back from shopping.

“Will I what?” John asked cheerfully as he opened the door and hung up his jacket.

“Care if...Amanda? If Amanda stays another half hour.”

John turned, a confused look on his face, but froze when he spotted the woman occupying their couch. “Uh. I, uh…” John stammered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and refocused his attention to the easel. Honestly, it was as if he’d never seen a woman in her knickers. John was moving around in the kitchen now, undoubtedly making tea.

“I’ll have a cup,” he said distractedly, then fell into a pleased sort of awe that painting facial features provided him.

* * *

 

“Seventy five pounds, as per our arrangement. Don’t waste it on booze,” Sherlock said crisply, then shut the door on….whatever-her-name-was’ face. For God’s sakes- the drinking habit was written all over her.

“So. Who was that then,” John asked as he emerged from the kitchen, still holding a mug _(two cups of tea then- he must have been unsettled)._

“I asked for tea,” Sherlock sad, remembering his earlier request. “Where is it?” John nodded to a mug sitting on the edge of the table. Sherlock was disappointed to find it was cold; his lip curled slightly at the taste and he stared at the drink as if he could make it warmer, then set it down with a dissatisfied sigh and settled in at the table.

“No but seriously,” John said as he sat in his chair. “Who was that woman?”  
Sherlock jerked out of his thoughts on whether the shade of pink he’d used on the lips needed to be lighter. A slight frown crossed his face as he tried to track the conversation he and John were apparently having.

“What?” was the only response he could form.

John gestured to the easel. “The woman you were painting, not an hour ago? Who was she? Are you doing some kind of experiment?”

Sherlock blinked. _(Had John really not noticed? They’d lived together for some time now…)_ “No, John,” he said out loud. “Not an experiment. Or a case. I haven’t the faintest idea who that woman is, other than an alcoholic, underpaid stripper. Not someone I usually say yes to when they call but,” he shrugged, “they do have interesting stories, and it was the body type I was looking for.”

John’s face had started getting red as Sherlock had kept talking, until even his ears were a delicate shade. Sherlock thought it was quite interesting.

“Jesus, Sherlock, if you’re having...company over, just say so! I don’t want to walk in on something more...compromising, or anything,” John was saying.

“What?” Sherlock asked again. _(God-is idiocy contagious?)_ “No, she’s not-”he rolled his eyes and dropped his head into his palms. “That woman is not a prostitute, at least as far as I can tell. I did not have sex with her, and you wouldn’t have seen anything more explicit.”

“Then what-”

“I’m an artist, John!” Sherlock snapped, waving a hand at the canvas. “I pay people to come and pose for me, sometimes, and I draw or paint them. Then they leave.”

John looked as if he’d been hit on the head. “Oh.” Then, confusion, and a bit of...hurt? “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sherlock shrugged again. “Never came up. Is it going to be a problem?”

John cleared his throat. “Ah, no. No, of course not. Just, um. If they haven’t got _anything_ on, let me know beforehand, okay?”

Sherlock acquiesced with a lazy nod, and with a quick grin, John got up.

“Fancy another cuppa-perhaps one you’ll actually drink?”

“Mhm.”

* * *

 

“I think I’m in love with you,” Sherlock stated as he stared at the ceiling.

“Sorry, what?” John’s voice traveled from the kitchen. The sound of footsteps indicated he’d walked into the living room and was staring. _(He couldn’t hear John’s stare, of course, but he felt it, a warm weight on his skin.)_

“You’re right,” his lips moved against his fingers as he spoke. “‘Think’ is an incorrect term. I know I’m in love with you- I’m unsure if you reciprocate.”

A soft _whump_ had Sherlock imagining John collapsing in his chair, completely baffled, though Sherlock’s gaze stayed firmly fixed on a crack in the ceiling. It wouldn’t do, for John to see him so vulnerable. _(Especially since there’s no way he loves you back.)_

Finally, John spoke. “Sherlock...have you ever been in love before?”

“Yes,” he answered simply.

John shifted. “And...uh, what happened?”

Sherlock made a vague gesture, attempting nonchalance, but a bit of pain bled through his words. “He died. Cancer. Not because he loved me though-fairly certain anyway.”

“People don’t get cancer because they fall in love.”

“No, I suppose not,” Sherlock said wearily. “But back to you. If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t mention it. It’s not going to affect our existing relationship though I suppose it may unsettle you to the point where you’ll leave. But I really think-”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was quiet, calm, and far too close. Starting, Sherlock realised that the doctor had made his way over to the couch and was now looking down at Sherlock, expression equal parts confused and amused.

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to ignore the way his pulse sped up as he hastily sat up on the couch. John sank heavily into the cushions on the other end, sprawled across the armrest.

“Why did you decide to tell me this now?” John inquired. His words were searched over for accusations, but, finding only genuine curiosity, Sherlock answered quietly.

“It is better, to do it now. One I realised it, I knew it was only a matter of time until it became obvious to you, too.”

John laughed shortly, and Sherlock stared. “Sherlock, I can barely tell anything about what you’re thinking on my most telepathic days- if you’re half as good at hiding love as you are body parts, I wouldn’t have noticed.”

Sherlock made a pained sound _(honestly- how did John not noticed how accurately he read Sherlock?)_ “John. The past few weeks have been utter hell- almost worse than withdrawal. Every time I’m near you, my skin itches to touch you. My pulse skyrockets and my thought processes scatter- I’ve not been able to do an experiment in days! And I should be going mad with boredom but I’m not because I can’t stop _thinking_ about you. Even now, when you’re just _sitting_ there I want to run my fingers through your hair and catalogue the texture and smell, want to kiss you and find out what you taste like and at what rate your pupils dilate-”

“So then do it,” John said calmly.

Mind spinning from the cut off, Sherlock stared for a few seconds; he was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open. “What?”

“So then do it,” John repeated, and smiled at Sherlock’s flabbergasted expression. “I’m not opposed to being...more, than we are. I haven’t said anything before because you made your stance clear the first night we met,” he continued, and leaned forward, looking at Sherlock earnestly, “and I wanted to respect your wishes. So yes, I’m fine- more than fine- with being your partner in every sense, but I need you to be sure, Sherlock. I need you to be sure that you will try your hardest to make this work.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, hoarse, emotion _(where the hell had all of these feelings come from?)_ welling up in his chest, making it hard to breathe. _(He hadn’t foreseen John being fine- no, more than fine- with this but God...if this was what it meant…)_ “Yes.”

A smile lifted John’s lips and lit up his eyes. “Then come over here and kiss me,” he whispered.

A small sound got caught in Sherlock’s throat as he slid closer to John, leaning over him. One hand cupped John’s cheek before sliding into his hair, and for a moment they held eye contact, breathing shallowly; Sherlock could hear his heartbeat in his ears as he softly settle his lips on John’s.

 _(Christ.)_ A whimper escaped him at the sensory overload-even with just their lips touching Sherlock felt utterly surrounded by John, the smell of tea and sweat and musk, slightly chapped lips and soft strands of dishwater blonde hair, and then John’s tongue licked at his lips and as their mouths opened Sherlock felt a groan pass through John’s throat. Warmth and heat and if Sherlock had felt surrounded by John before, now he was positively drowning as John’s hands _(God he loved those hands...strong and steady and beautiful)_ came up to find the back of Sherlock’s neck and pull him closer until he was halfway leaning on John, one hand planted on John’s chest with fingers curling into his jumper. Sherlock lost himself, lost every though that didn’t consist of John.

The kiss slowed naturally, long presses of tongue turning into a soft meeting of lips until they were just hovering there, inhaling through slightly parted lips, exchanging breath. A smile broke over Sherlock’s face and he slid down to bury his nose in John’s jumper, listening to the sound of John’s heart.

“Good?” the word rumbled through John’s body. Sherlock hummed in response.

“I’m looking forward to the actual sex immensely.”

Listening to John’s laugh echo through his chest made Sherlock grin like a fool.

* * *

 

When Sherlock opened his eyes, the sight that welcomed him took a moment to register ; when it did, his breath caught in his throat.

He didn’t think he’d ever get used to having John in his bed, to seeing him every morning. But today...the sun had come in at just the right angle, hitting John’s skin and turning it a beautiful golden hue, highlighting the light tan he’d gotten on a case in California. The spiderweb of his scar was white, the stark difference creating a beautiful contrast. With the sheet tangled around his hips, John was the most gorgeous thing Sherlock had ever seen. (More than he usually was, at any rate.)

Suddenly struck with an urge, Sherlock quickly but carefully slid out of bed and padded out to the living room, grabbing a sketchbook and pencils.

He’d drawn and painted John dozens of times over the past year, but Sherlock had decided that the best pieces were the ones that John hadn’t posed for, when everything Sherlock loved about him shone through.

Flopping into a chair, he settled into the familiar process, first outlining and drawing general shapes, before going back and filling in detail. As Sherlock drew the folds of the sheets that clung to John’s hipbones, the man began to stir, slowly waking up and casting a look around the room. A small smile settled on his face as John’s gaze landed on Sherlock.

“Morning,” John said through a yawn, voice rough with sleep. “What’re you doing?”

Sherlock lifted the sketchbook, and John made a slight noise as he recognised what he was holding.

“Why are you doing that now? God, I must look a sight-” the rest of the sentence was cut off by Sherlock’s lips on his, one small sound the only protest before he returned the kiss, turning it into a lazy tangle of tongues.

“Do you know,” Sherlock said into the crook of John’s neck as he caught his breath, “what I see when I look at you?”

John shook his head mutely, and Sherlock left the bed to grab his sketchbook before returning, propping himself up against the headboard beside John. Silently, Sherlock held the paper out, and John took it; a quick inhale showed his surprise.

“This...can’t be how you see me,” he denied. “This is beauty. I’m not beautiful.”

Sherlock guided John by the chin to look him in the eye. “You’re eyes are like an ocean, on a stormy day,” he began lowly, fingers lightly tracing the laughter lines radiating out from John’s eyelashes. “Your lips are so expressive, and when you lick them I want to kiss you. You’re hair is fascinating- like spun gold, or silver, depending on the light.” Sherlock’s hands slid down to John’s shoulders, though their eyes remained fixed on each other. “Your scars are an intricate web of your survival; your muscles aren’t overtly large, but hint at your strength. Your skin is amazing in its imperfections and you smell like home.

“There’s a belief, if you will, among artists, that the best portraits show just as much about the painter’s feelings as the subject’s. In this case, I know it to be true. Because when I look at you, John Watson, I see the most beautiful, strong, good man I have ever known,” Sherlock finished, and a hush fell in its place.

John sat there, staring, and just as Sherlock began to fidget _(did I do something wrong have I messed it up)_ he found himself shoved onto his back as John covered him with his body, planting kisses on Sherlock’s forehead, nose, then finally his lips and oh _God_ John was hard against Sherlock’s thigh and as they snogged breathlessly John panted endearments against Sherlock’s lips.

It was a flurry of emotions coming out all at once; John’s fingers fumbled hurriedly with the lube, and the sense of urgency continued until Sherlock felt John sink into him where he stayed still, and then it was as if time slowed, until a heartbeat lasted an eternity.

John’s ragged breaths ghosted over Sherlock’s cheek; their fingers were entwined, pressing into the sheets as they lay there, adjusting and luxuriating in sensations.

“I’ve been told I can be overly romantic,” John whispered after a moment, “so I won’t try to be fancy about this. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. You are the most brilliant, gorgeous person I’ve ever known and I love you so much it takes my breath away. WIll you-”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, hips canting upwards.

“Fuck- I haven’t even-”

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted again, voice husky. “Yes of course I’ll stay with you for the rest of my life. What are you, an idiot?”

John laughed and Sherlock moaned at how it made John move inside him. “Yes, but I’m your idiot.”

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! This fan fiction was such a joy to write, and I hope you guys liked it as much as I did :) As always, constructive criticism/comments are absolutely welcome- I love to know what you're thinking.


End file.
